Fidelis
by JayRain
Summary: Felix didn't lose his faith; it slowly trickled out of him as the days became months and years. Gereon didn't lose his faith; he just needed somewhere else to place it. A dying son and a grieving father, and the cult that promised to make things right: if only they pledge their faith to the Elder One. Gift fic for AgapeErosPhilia.


_For AgapeErosPhilia, my Secret Santa in the Dragon Age Fanfiction Writers exchange for holiday 2016! I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

 _Fidelis_

The lemon grove was Felix's favorite place to be alone. He was never truly alone, but the slaves his father had attending to him maintained a respectful distance. If he closed his eyes it was easy to pretend they weren't there, and to just smell the lemons and remember his mother. Remember when she was alive, and she would stroll the citrus groves; remember the way she smiled when she looked down, and later over, at him as they walked together. Remember when he wasn't always sick, when he wasn't fading away into nothing, when he wasn't staring at something worse than death any time he looked into a mirror. Remember a time when he had faith, and believed.

His father would expect him to go to Chantry services this evening. He was dressed, ready to depart, but needed time to himself. Time to figure out how to tell his father that he was finished fighting. The warm breeze blew over him and his bare arms broke out in gooseflesh. This time of year was always warm, but he chilled so easily these days.

A slave hurried to him and draped a cloak over his shoulders. Felix pulled it close to him, nodding his acknowledgement. The slave bowed his head and stepped away. Felix glanced back through the rows of trees and sighed when he saw the familiar silhouette of his father walking from the sprawling house. His bones ached; his skin felt papery dry; he almost always felt exhausted. But it was most painful to force himself to smile as his father approached.

"My son." Gereon Alexius rested his hands on Felix's thin shoulders and searched his face. "Are you well enough?"

Felix kept his smile fixed in place. "As well as can be expected, father." Alexius gently squeezed his shoulder. "Please, don't look so sad," he said upon seeing the glimmer in his father's eyes. "It's Satinalia. We'll go to services and then begin the feasting!"

He realized, as they walked back through the grove, that perhaps that was what was most tiring of all. Trying to be strong for his father. He was all Gereon had left, and he was slowly but certainly dying. There was no cure. Actually that wasn't true; there was one potential cure, but Gereon would not hear of it. No member of a Magister's home would serve as a Grey Warden, no matter how noble the cause or how hopeless Felix's prospects otherwise.

As always the ride to the Chantry was silent and awkward. The one thing they needed to talk about, neither would speak of. Instead Felix stared out at the passing countryside. What started as citrus groves gave rise to the outskirts of the city: small village markets, narrower roads, more people. The groups of people gave way to crowds, and then the carriage slowed as the crowds became throngs clogging the way into Minrathous. Felix watched the scores of people and tried not to feel his father's worried stare boring into him.

It was slow going through the streets, and today, more than most days, Felix took in the people they passed. Soporati, Laetan, Altus… wealthy or poor, human, elf, or mix of the two, all were mortal. It was only the will of the Maker that decided who lived or died, and when and how.

At first he'd been angry. He was a talented mage of a ranking household, only son of a Magister. Why had the slaves and servants been spared? Why had his mother been killed, while the soporati guards his father employed survived? Why had he survived, only to live in this twilight existence somewhere between life and death?

"Felix?" His father stood halfway down the steps of the open carriage door.

Felix followed him out into the late afternoon sun. Slaves pushed back the throngs of beggars surrounding the entry to the Chantry. Take away his fine robes, and Felix knew he'd fit in with them: thin, coughing, pitiful, and just barely surviving.

Inside the Chantry was quiet and lit by globes of pale orange light. While all were children of the Maker, it was only those of the Altus and Laetan echelons that could be found at the service, and even then, only the Altuses and the Magisters sat toward the front: closer to His Reverence the Divine, and symbolically, the Maker. Yet one more reason Felix found it more and more difficult to keep his faith. Not only had the Maker seen fit to allow him to contract this taint; but there was such a divide within his own house that no one thought to address.

He found it difficult to listen to the service. Early on in his illness he'd clung to every word. He'd prayed fervently. He'd lit candles and asked for penance that the Divine would not grant due to Felix's social standing. As the weeks stretched into months he'd lit fewer candles. His prayers became perfunctory. He could have dispensed with Chantry services altogether if not for his father dragging him here week after week, hoping to curry favor with the Maker, hoping for a miracle that would never happen.

Today was no different. But for the sake of his father Felix pretended to be interested in the service, and when it was over, he accompanied his father to the bank of candles in the alcove to the left of the altar. He called a small flame to his fingertips and watched it flicker in the dark for a moment before lighting a candle. _Maker, give me the strength to tell him I can't go on like this anymore. Maker forgive me for giving up, on me, on him, on you._ _I can't do this anymore._

He lit the candle with his fingertip. His magic did not falter, and he felt lighter now that he'd said his final prayer. He rose and saw his father, head bent down and hand hovering over a candle with small flames dancing at his fingertips. What was he praying? What would the father of a doomed son have to say to the Maker? Felix didn't ask. And his father didn't tell him. As usual they only smiled at each other and returned to the carriage for another silent drive home. However, this time, Gereon Alexius kept smiling, and his eyes shone with something Felix had not seen in a long while: hope. He could only hope his father would not be disappointed.

* * *

The sounds of celebration drifted through the halls of the Alexius manor, but that wasn't what Gereon listened for. He waited in the quiet study with his slaves in attendance, and a shining, curved blade resting on his desk. The knife was new: a gift that was his to keep, should he decide to accept it.

Footsteps. This was what he'd waited for. He sat at his desk and rested his hands before the knife. The door creaked open and his heartbeat quickened. "Livius," he said as he tried to hide his relief. "Thank you for coming."

Livius Erimond slipped into the room and clicked the door closed behind him. "You're missing a lovely party, Gereon," he admonished.

"The party is little more than a cover," he said with a wave of his hand. "Let the people celebrate. I'm done celebrating this life though."

"You are ready for more, then, as we discussed?" Erimond took a seat across from Gereon. He glanced down at the kneeling slaves and then back up at Gereon Alexius.

"Healing magic has failed me. The Maker has failed me. I am ready to embrace the Elder One." Alexius's voice trembled slightly, but whether with fear or anger he couldn't say.

Erimond smiled. "The Elder One will make you a god on this earth. He will give you the power to do anything you wish. He will strike down our enemies and raise the Imperium from its own ashes. All he asks is for your faithfulness and obedience."

"I am prepared to give it fully." _If only to save my son,_ Alexius added silently. _Anything for Felix_. Power meant nothing to him if, even having it, it wasn't enough to save his son. Wealth and position in the Magisterium? Meaningless if Felix continued to linger on the cusp of death.

"He will ask much of you."

"I know."

"You may find his demands difficult, if not nearly impossible."

"I am prepared, Livius," Alexiu told him. He pressed his palms into the desk to keep his hands from shaking. He stared at the knife: unused, sharp, the blade looking almost liquid in the candlelight. "I, Gereon Alexius, pledge myself to the Elder One and his Venatori." He picked up the knife and dragged the blade across his palm.

Erimond did the same. Red swirled from their sliced hands. Erimond began chanting, a form of ancient Tevene that was only spoken in hushed whispers now. The candle flames dimmed and a heaviness surrounded them. Alexius pulled out a small metal bowl from his desk drawer and squeezed his bleeding hand. Drops of red splashed into the bowl. Erimond did the same. Then they took turns cutting the throats of the waiting slaves and filling the bowl. Erimonds chanting grew louder; the presence grew heavier and Alexius felt an awful, terrible, raw power surrounding him.

Red and gray and white and black flashed before his eyes as the blood in the bowl swirled into a cyclone of fine mist around them. Then it was all over and the candles burned softly once more. The sounds of celebration wafted down the halls. Aside from the blood all over the floor and the dead bodies, it was as if nothing had happened.

Livius Erimond smiled broadly. "Rise, my brother," he said, holding out his still-bleeding hand. "Welcome to the Venatori. Through us the Elder One will rise again. He will walk this earth and make us like gods among men. You will have untold power. Power to heal Felix," he said knowingly.

"If serving the Elder One is what it will take to heal him, then I will give all I am to the Venatori," Alexius said. He truly meant it; everything else had failed him. If faith in the Elder One would succeed where all others had failed, it was a chance he was willing to take.


End file.
